


No Signal

by in_lighter_ink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1-500 words, Comment Fic, Drug Use, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_lighter_ink/pseuds/in_lighter_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Sherlock, any, no signal</p><p>Mycroft had found three spelling errors on Sherlock's website. This is not about mobile phone reception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Signal

Mycroft Holmes has made a career -- a _life_ \-- out of always appearing unruffled. He learned early that remaining calm was more likely to earn him Mummy's favor than were Sherlock's childish tantrums.

That same poise won him school prizes for debate, accolades from dons and employers, and, yes, the responsibility of being Britain's true shadow government.

He (internally, of course, always internally) reveled in it.

That he is presently terrified, then, is unsettling. Profoundly unsettling.

But warranted in this particular instance, he grants. Even still, he keeps his shaking hands hidden in his pockets and tries not to let his face betray his concern.

Not that Sherlock has taken any notice of his presence.

Mycroft has come to Montague Street because he found three spelling errors on Sherlock's website. Such oversights are uncharacteristic, and far more worrisome than his failure to return Mycroft's phone calls and e-mails. Such behavior is expected.

Sherlock's flat, Mycroft notes with distaste, is squalid, reeking of chemicals and unwashed human, books and papers and remnants of Sherlock's "experiments" strewn over every available dusty surface. As Mycroft analyzes the wreckage, it becomes clear that the hypotheses Sherlock had set about testing had grown increasingly irrational, his methods increasingly manic. Entirely unscientific.

Something twists painfully in Mycroft's gut.

The dull ache becomes nausea when Mycroft finally sees Sherlock, stretched full length on his ratty excuse for a sofa, staring up at the moldy ceiling. His eyes are glassy.

Mycroft's breathing has increased in speed. Quite uncontrollably.

He clears his throat, hoping to provoke a _fuck off, Mycroft_ or a slight movement. A change in respiration. Some response. _Any_ response.

Sherlock does not even blink. Mycroft has failed, utterly, to reach him.

Clinging to the last vestiges of his studied composure, Mycroft strides over to Sherlock's supine form.

The carotid pulse is thready, weak, but present. Mercifully, wonderfully present.

Mycroft drops to his knees, narrowly avoiding the hypodermic needle discarded on the floor. He draws a shuddering breath, another, and then reaches for his mobile.

As he waits for the ambulance, he does not begin making the plans that must be made. Instead, he holds his brother's slack hand and allows himself, albeit briefly, to weep.


End file.
